"Angels and ashes and blood. He kept repeating those words on the beach. His zombies were happy to take whatever they found in the church, but Blackbeard just seemed to care about the slaughter." Philip looked down into the mug of hot tea in his right hand. "Angelica was convinced the right person could save him. I wish I'd been equal to the task."
Syrena rested her back against the brick fireplace. She did not share Philip's preoccupation with saving souls, and his remorse for failing to save the pirate captain's was not something she could understand. Judging by the sympathetic nods of the other men in the room, though, they shared this peculiar empathy for evil people. She decided to let it slide. The warmth radiating from the hearth burned pleasantly against her sore muscles. It relieved her that the reverend and his three assistants had opted to stretch out on the floor in the library instead of sitting in the dining room. She had sat on benches a few times during their voyage, and the sensation of resting with half her legs so high above the ground still disoriented her.
"Was Syrena on Blackbeard's ship when you were brought on board?" Ephraim asked. He raised a cup of tea to his own lips and lowered it quickly so the steam would not fog up his glasses.
"No, we found Syrena on the island," Philip replied. His fingers curved around his mug thoughtfully. They had spent several days debating the finer points of the story they would tell to explain Syrena's history. In the end they had settled on a version as close to the truth as possible, without revealing her mystical origins. "She had lived there for about ten years after an unfortunate shipwreck. Blackbeard didn't have a map to the fountain, so when he discovered her, he pressed her into acting as his guide."
Reverend Lawrence frowned. "Were any of your family living with you on the island?" he asked her politely.
"They did not survive the wreck. It was only me," Syrena answered. She rolled her thumbs over the rim of her teacup and studied the four men seated around them. It was rather fascinating to watch the changes in their faces as they found a place for her in their minds. A new kind of wonder and curiosity glimmered in their eyes, and she could imagine the mental picture they had just formed of her. A wild castaway growing up alone in the heart of the jungle, surviving for a decade without speaking to another living soul. She wondered how they would look at her if she told them she had spent four centuries living alone in a very similar environment.
The reverend's frown softened. "I am sorry for your loss," he said, and he looked like he truly meant it.
"You are very kind," she said quietly, suddenly wanting to glance down again.
"But what about the Fountain?" Simon pressed, leaning forward with serious eagerness. "Was it real?"
"Don't be rude," Ephraim said dryly. Simon looked away. Apparently conscious of the poor timing of the question, he flicked an apologetic glance in her direction, but the excitement remained in his eyes and posture. Philip let out a soft sigh, half-amused and half-exasperated.
"There was a fountain, and it was real. I never found out if it was the Fountain of Youth. The Royal Navy arrived before Blackbeard had a chance to drink from it," he explained. "They were led by a man with a wooden leg. It would seem at least that part of Blackbeard's superstition was true." His brow furrowed as he contemplated the half-empty mug again. "Once the fighting broke out, all I really thought about was escaping with Syrena. We didn't stay long enough to see how it all turned out."
Philip set his mug on the floor by the hearth, where the firelight cast strange white patterns on the silver pewter. Syrena watched the flickering curves, mesmerized, until she felt her head begin to nod. Her eyelids were starting to grow heavy. Vaguely she heard Reverend Lawrence make another remark and Philip's reply, but it was rather like listening to a conversation going on above the surface while underwater. Unconsciously, her fingers relaxed.
A shattering at her feet jerked her from drowsiness. She looked down and saw the porcelain teacup she had been holding had broken to pieces, and the copper liquid was spreading rapidly across the floorboards. Syrena gasped softly. "I am so sorry-"
Philip reached down and rescued the broken shards, depositing them into the saucer by her feet. The action made her cheeks flush; she should have been the one to do that, not him. He squeezed her shoulder, giving her a reassuring smile when she looked up. The reverend waved his hand in dismissal.
"It's all of us who should apologize, keeping you awake talking when it's obvious you're exhausted."
Simon snorted. "Yes, Philip, what did you do to her? She's clearly traumatized." He turned to her with his hands over his chest and his eyes full of contrition. "For whatever you've endured in this man's company, I am truly sorry. While some blame his faulty education and his half-Irish mother, I know deep inside he's simply a bad person."
Philip's hand abruptly left her shoulder as he moved to swing it towards Simon's chest. "Shut it-"
Simon dodged the blow. Ephraim and Julian wisely stationed themselves in front of the table, to act as a buffer should Philip or Simon stumble towards it. Syrena looked at the smashed porcelain on the floor. They were all laughing now, as though nothing all that terrible had happened, and for some reason it made her want to cry. She tightened her jaw, telling herself that it was fatigue and nothing else that made her emotions threaten to spin out of control.
Reverend Lawrence stretched out his arm and regarded her kindly. "Let's leave the young ones be for tonight, shall we?"
Syrena accepted his outstretched hand and allowed him to lead her out of the library. They passed through the kitchen into grey rooms with yawning windows. The only light came from the candle in the reverend's hand, which cast elongated shadows across the floor and walls. Syrena's heart gave a small tremor when they reached the stairs, but she managed to steady herself on the wall and complete the ascent without stumbling. She breathed a very quiet sigh of relief when they reached the top.
"My late wife used this room as her personal study, when we didn't have many guests in the house. She liked to watch the sunset from the window." The reverend had paused at a small door on the left side of the corridor. "I hope you'll forgive me if it's a little dusty. It hasn't been occupied for quite some time." The door creaked slightly when he opened it. Syrena peered inside. Her eyes adjusted to a simple room with a quilted bed and a wooden chest at its foot. Bits of embroidery draped the chest and the table and the high-backed chair in the corner. It did not look particularly beautiful in the dark, but she suspected everything had been very carefully arranged in love for the deceased occupant. She entered softly, out of respect for the spirit that might still linger inside.
"Was she very old when she died?" she asked.
"Not fifty," Reverend Lawrence replied. "She was always young to me, though."
Syrena swallowed. "Then…I am sorry for your loss as well."
Reverend Lawrence eyed her curiously. "What exactly is your age, child?"
"I don't know for certain," Syrena answered honestly. She was grateful she at least did not have to lie about that. It would make Philip happy. The reverend chuckled. He placed the candle on the dresser and moved toward the door.
"Make one up," he suggested as he stepped across the threshold. "I find revising one's own history one of the more gratifying aspects of a faulty memory. Good night!"
The door clicked shut before Syrena remembered that she was probably supposed to say good night as well. She wondered if he would think her rude or supercilious for not responding. The thought troubled her for a long time as she unlaced her dress and folded it into a smooth rectangle by the side of the bed. This person was someone very important to Philip; she did not wish to cause him grief by making a bad impression on the man who had freely opened his house to them. Then again, that had been one of the advantages of the false background they had invented for her. Most people would likely attribute any oddities in her behavior to her isolated upbringing.
Rubbing her arms in her shift, she stretched out on the mattress and let her head sink into the down pillows. It was not hard or cold, but it was uncomfortably still. Until meeting Philip she had never slept outside the ocean before, and she was accustomed to feeling the flow of waves and currents as she drifted off. On the boat there had at least been the gentle rocking to lull her to sleep. And Philip had always been next to her, whether on land or sea, letting her close her eyes with the rise and fall of his chest against her back. But things would be different once they reached Barbados, he had explained a few days after they boarded the Morning Mercy. Society dealt harshly with young couples who slept together and were not man and wife, even if they really were only sleeping.
We could say we are man and wife, she had suggested then. He hesitated, and for a moment he appeared to be seriously considering her proposal. Then he smiled and shook his head. He wanted to start their future together with as few lies as possible. No, she would be sleeping on her own tonight, and likely for several more nights to come.
She rolled onto her side. Outside her window the wind was picking up, batting dry leaves against the glass. The bed's obstinate refusal to move was starting to make her dizzy. With a violent start, she sat up and threw herself off the mattress. Her hands fumbled with the sash for a few frustrating moments before she flung open the window.
A warm gust of wind hit her face. It was a far cry from the comforting pulse on the ocean floor, but it was enough to clear her head. She turned back to the bed and wondered if she was strong enough to move it. After her first three attempts failed, she decided to tear the sheets off the mattress and lump them into a soft pile on the floor. Then, curling into a ball, she pulled the quilt over her head so it covered her like a shell. The fabric rippled over her body as the gale rose. Outside the wind hissed through the branches, hoarse and empty, like a thin wail of loneliness in the night.
The venerable John Lawrence's study was a mess, Philip thought as he leaned back in an oaken chair by the wall. The papers on his desk had overflowed to the floor, leaving it a small rectangular island in a sea of parchment. The books on his shelves didn't seem to be stacked in any specific order - if they were stacked at all. Several had page corners folded down to mark a particularly beloved passage. Glancing at the clutter around him, Philip could not help picturing the indignation his old mentor would feel in this room. Reverend Anton had believed a true Christian needed only one book. He had often accused Reverend Lawrence of spending more time reading the words of scholars than the word of God. Still, they had been friends. That Reverend Lawrence would spend so much energy repairing a church that wasn't his proved that clearly enough.
Philip's eyes roamed across the scribbled notes and half-written sermons until his eyes fell on a twice-folded paper stamped with red sealing wax. Reverend Lawrence nodded at the parchment that had drawn his gaze.
"A letter from my daughter," he explained. "She and her husband returned to Devon three years ago. They've been asking me to come back quite regularly ever since. I cherish them both as living proof that hope always triumphs over experience."
Philip looked across at him. "You're not tempted, sir?" he asked. "No one would think less of you for wanting to spend your last years with your family."
The reverend sighed. "No, my journeying days are done," he said, removing his spectacles. Without them, the crow's feet on the corners of his eyes stood out more sharply in the dim candleglow. "When you reach my age, Philip, you come to value a bit of stability."
His grandchildren's grandchildren will be in their graves before I look as old as he does, Philip realized. It was a sobering thought.
"Tell me, Philip," Reverend Lawrence said, suddenly serious. He folded his hands over his desk and looked at Philip through stern eyes. "What precisely are your intentions toward this girl?"
Philip hesitated. He had not known Reverend Lawrence nearly as well as he had known Reverend Anton; he could not guess how the man across from him would react to what he was about to say. The next moment he realized that it made no difference. "I would like to marry her," he answered clearly.
The reverend raised his eyebrows, though his face remained otherwise inscrutable. "And have you told her this?"
Philip fingered the arm of his chair. "Not in those words," he said slowly. "No."
Reverend Lawrence nodded thoughtfully. "Good," he said and, after another pause, "That's good." He was silent for almost a full minute after that. Philip watched as the older man fiddled absentmindedly with a quill while his eyes surveyed the disorganized notes on his desk. He was starting to wonder if the minister expected him to reply when, abruptly, Reverend Lawrence shook his head as if coming out of a trance.
"Yes. I'm sure you know her better than I do, but I couldn't help noticing that she seems a bit…out of her element, if you will. If she's been living by herself for as long as you say, turning into a wife and mother is the last thing she needs right now. After ten years she'll need some time to adjust to being around people again."
Philip looked down. A flicker of sadness brushed past his chest, though if it showed in his face, Reverend Lawrence probably wouldn't guess the real reason. He could make Syrena a wife, but if what the Spaniards had told him was true, he could never make her a mother. Even so, he could see the logic in the reverend's words. It would be wrong, to bring her to land and then suddenly throw matrimony on her as well.
"Are you saying it would be better for me to distance myself from her?" he asked carefully. His throat constricted as the question left his mouth. Reverend Lawrence raised a conciliatory hand.
"There's no need for you to avoid her entirely. I imagine she'd find that rather disorienting too," he clarified. "But think, Philip. Alone for half her life, then suddenly assaulted by a gang of pirates, and you probably the only decent man she's seen outside her family. I'm not saying this to belittle you. I'm sure you'd be as devoted a partner as she could wish for. But she must realize that she has options." The reverend sighed. "Rescues make excellent romances. They don't always make excellent marriages."
He leaned backwards in his chair. He shrugged his shoulders, as though trying to shake off the more difficult part of the conversation. "That aside, I don't recall ever hosting a former castaway in this house. If there is anything else you could tell us that might make her more comfortable here…"
Philip tried very hard to keep his face neutral while his mind raced with the thousand things he couldn't tell the reverend about Syrena. He ran his thumb along the wooden armrest thoughtfully. "She doesn't like eating cooked meat. Or Catholics."
He realized a second too late how disturbing that statement probably sounded. Reverend Lawrence merely raised an eyebrow, as though it was nothing more than an intriguing personality quirk. "As I said. You know her better than I do."
The minister rose from his chair. Taking his lead, Philip stood and followed him to the door. Before they left, the reverend paused, his gaze softening. "There is always the possibility that once she finds her feet, she will choose to go somewhere else," he said. "Of course, that doesn't mean I won't be rooting for you."
They walked through the dark house in silence, broken only by the muffled conversation emanating from the library. Another half-smile crossed Philip's face as he remembered the story they had told in that room less than an hour ago. Despite the technical falsehood, there was a certain truth to the fabricated version of Syrena's role. He had been confused and adrift, and out of nowhere she had appeared, giving him a purpose he had been unable to find since Angelica dragged him aboard the Queen Anne's Revenge. She had been his guiding star, even if she never had been Blackbeard's.
Reverend Lawrence stopped him again at the foot of the stairs. His face looked grim, and Philip suspected it wasn't a trick of the darkness and shadows. "We should take a walk tomorrow," he said.
Philip blinked. This did not seem like the kind of remark that required a grave prelude. The reverend nodded, but he had stopped looking at Philip, and it seemed he nodded to himself. "Tomorrow. Yes. Tomorrow I will explain to you what your brothers died for. Not tonight." He placed a hand on his shoulder. "Sleep well, Philip. In the morning I'll tell you about angels and ashes and blood."
Philip placed an uncertain hand on Reverend Lawrence's arm, not quite sure how he was supposed to respond to that. The reverend accepted the gesture with another nod and disappeared into the adjacent room. Philip watched him go, disconcerted. He shook his head and turned to climb the stairs. Whatever it was, it couldn't possibly affect them now.
At the top of the staircase he paused. He wondered how Syrena was doing. There was only one closed door in the hallway, so it was not hard to guess where she was tonight. For half a heartbeat he considered knocking on her door and then thought better of it. She's not a helpless captive for you to rescue anymore. She doesn't need your protection. All the same, he realized he had gotten used to falling asleep with her beside him. He had grown accustomed to the sound of her shallow breathing, the way the moon highlighted the goosebumps on her arms, and the occasional moments when her head would fall against his shoulder. Going back to sleeping on his own suddenly felt very lonely.
It was a selfish impulse, he thought. They could share centuries together as long as they didn't ruin things at the beginning. If she could give him time, he could give her space. As he turned to walk toward the other end of the corridor, the moonlight cast a grey shadow on her door. The image of the shut door followed him down the hall, a melancholy reminder that where they once had been two, they now were reduced to being one and one.
Disclaimer: Not mine (since I forgot to insert it last time).